


Five Endings for Constance Heck

by bironic



Series: the many lives of zahn mcclarnon [1]
Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Ableist Language, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Multiple Endings, Murder, Native American Character(s), POV Multiple, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strangulation, canon 'bury your gays' trope, self-actualization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/pseuds/bironic
Summary: **spoilers for eps 2x8-2x9**Perhaps because Sioux Falls law enforcement had its hands full cleaning up the trail of bodies Hanzee Dent left in his wake, or perhaps because few detectives remained to analyze the sad scene at the Southnik Hotel after the Gerhardts and half the regional police force gunned each other down across town, history does not know precisely what happened to Constance Heck in the time between her phone call to Peggy Blumquist and her strangling at the hands of the man who made sure she could sound no alarm.





	Five Endings for Constance Heck

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **theletterelle** for beta!
> 
> Quick backgrounder for this story if you haven't seen the show: <https://bironic.dreamwidth.org/373920.html>

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** Perhaps because Sioux Falls law enforcement had its hands full cleaning up the trail of bodies Hanzee Dent left in his wake, or perhaps because few detectives remained to analyze the sad scene at the Southnik Hotel after the Gerhardts and half the regional police force gunned each other down across town, history does not know precisely what happened to Constance Heck in the time between her phone call to Peggy Blumquist and her strangling at the hands of the man who made sure she could sound no alarm.

Did she go quietly, succumbing to the inevitable once she'd failed to convince Peggy to reveal her exact location?

 

* * *

 

"I tried," she said, voice shaking. "You heard."

Hanzee put a finger to her lips. His dark eyes reflected the gleam of the candles she'd lit a lifetime ago.

He stroked her hair like a lover; she blinked back tears. As his fingers trailed over her ear, the hinge of her jaw, the side of her neck, she almost convinced herself he might let her go. 

The transition happened so smoothly, she didn't understand as soon as she should have why that hand spread across her throat while the other cupped the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into her pulsepoint. His face remained so calm, so still. Was that a hint of compassion in his gaze? 

Constance pried at his grip, but she couldn't budge him. Head thick, heart pounding, vision dissolving to static, she closed her eyes. He lowered her onto the bedspread as he squeezed and squeezed.

 

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** Although it can't be proven that Hanzee didn't overturn the lamp and table and scatter Constance's belongings about the room to mask a gentle kill, the disarray noted in the official Sioux Falls Police Department report does suggest a more violent end.

 

* * *

 

Hanzee rebuked himself for it afterwards. Just because Constance had been compliant all evening didn't mean she wouldn't panic when the moment finally arrived. Yet her sudden shove when he slid his hand around her throat caught him off guard, and that bought her enough time to spring off the bed and try to make a run for it.

Of course, he caught her before she made it more than two steps. She grabbed at the second bed as he wrapped his arms around her, but all that enabled her to do was pull the sheets halfway down as he dragged her toward the open area near the sofa, where he'd have more room to maneuver. 

He was stronger, calmer, and more experienced, not to mention armed, if it came down to it. While his rifle had been too conspicuous to carry into the hotel, he still had his revolver, although he didn't want to shoot her if he didn't have to; too loud. He didn't particularly want to slit her throat, either; messier than he would prefer this early in his mission, and the way she continued to struggle, there was a non-zero risk of spilling some of his own blood. No: He would do this by hand.

He'd dispatched considerably more difficult targets than Constance Heck, and he knew she wouldn't escape the room alive. Still, she had a height advantage and she fought like a wildcat. Swinging and kicking, she knocked over the chair, which took the wine bucket and one of the candles with it, and managed to clock him on the side of the head. He adjusted his grip to contain her arms before she brought anything else crashing down; he'd rather not have to kill the hotel staff who were sure to come knocking. Trapped, she bit his arm, not realizing she couldn't do much damage through his coat and denim shirt. He glanced over to make sure the toppled candle wasn't going to burn the place down. Luckily, it looked like the ice water had snuffed the flame.

That's about when Constance arched her lower body away from him, kicked up her bare heel and nailed him in the crotch.

Hanzee's vision tunneled as the pain crested over him. Constance wrenched free. He bent forward, wincing, and allowed himself three seconds to recover. One, two—he straightened just as Constance lifted her suitcase from the luggage rack and swung it at his head. He ducked. Her clothes and toiletries flew everywhere. The suitcase itself spun into the bureau.

Okay, now he was pissed. 

Constance made his job easier by standing there staring at him as he advanced on her, either because she didn't know what to do now that her plan had failed or because the look on his face left her frozen in fear. 

She broke for the door at the last second. Too late. 

He wound his hand in her damp hair and yanked her close. He forced her down with him to her knees, then her stomach as he straddled her legs. Her breaths came in gasps. When she tried to claw free, he slammed her forehead once-twice into the carpet. A lot of the fight went out of her then. 

He turned her onto her back. Visibly dazed and bleeding from the nose, all she could do was slap weakly at him. He stripped the belt free of her robe and tied it hard around her neck. Harder. Her face darkened, her veins bulged, her eyes went wide and disbelieving. The too-familiar last gasping-fish moments as the body ran out of air and the mind struggled to comprehend its own end. Her arms flopped to the floor. She jerked beneath him, then grew still. 

Hanzee held the belt until he was sure she wouldn't wake up again. He closed her eyes before he stood. 

He leaned a hand on the door jamb as he took in the mess they'd made. The mess he was still making: He'd just left a smear of blood on the white paint. Constance must have bled on him. He wiped off the rest on one of her discarded blouses so it wouldn't get on his clothes.

She'd never screamed.

 

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** And then there is the uncomfortable question raised by the state of one of the beds.

Southnik Hotel records, the county coroner's estimated time of death, and the fact that Constance was found wearing a bathrobe place Hanzee's arrival sometime after the hotel's daily maid service but before a typical lights-out. In other words, both beds ought to have been made.

Some see "disturbed enforcer" and "vulnerable woman" and say the conclusion is obvious.

 

* * *

 

Hanzee had a knack for inspiring silence in other people. That, or motor mouth. Constance had been one of the quiet ones before the phone call. The protests and pleas didn't start spilling out until, having prised from her all the details he was going to get about the Blumquists' location, he nudged her bathrobe off one shoulder. The babbling intensified when he leaned right up into her, nuzzling her ear, urging her without words to lie back.

He thought at first when she dropped to her elbows that she was giving in, but then she tried to bolt. On his feet in an instant, he grabbed the back of her robe, then got an arm around her waist. She kicked out, connecting with the bedside table and upsetting the lamp and vase. He shoved her onto the opposite bed. Although she landed a couple of decent blows along the way, her struggles didn't prevent him from wrestling her onto her back and sitting on her thighs. He pinned one arm and let her pound him with the other while he tugged open the robe. As long as she didn't go for his knife, she could fight him as much as she wanted. He unbuckled his belt one-handed and started in on his pants. That kicked up her efforts another notch.

"No," she said. "No no no no no, please. I won't tell anyone, I swear. I swear. Not even Peggy. I'll go home, I'll—I'll be quiet as a mouse."

He spat in his hand. For a second, he flashed back to the water that piece of shit bartender had served him a few hours ago. He closed his eyes against the memory, then focused on Constance's body, not bad for a white woman approaching middle age—her breasts as her chest heaved, her soft belly, her parted lips—as he readied himself.

She sucked in a breath when he entered her. Since he couldn't tell whether she was gasping or about to scream, he pressed his hand over her mouth.

It didn't take long. He hadn't had a woman in a while, and sitting so close to her all evening, smelling her shampoo, feeling the tremors pass through her neck and arms, had primed the pump.

She dug her nails into his arm. She drove her knees into his sides as though he were a horse she was riding and not the other way around. She yanked a handful of his hair. It didn't matter. He tipped his head to the side to accommodate Constance's pull, let his eyes drift shut, and shot into her. 

When he'd recovered, he repositioned himself astride her hips. He released her arm and her mouth. She let out a shaky breath and let go of his hair. He ran his fingertips over her flushed cheek, then wrapped both hands around her throat like a butterfly. The little death for him, the big one for her.

She bucked and twisted and scratched at him, to no avail. Eventually, the light went out of her eyes. And that made how many for today? He counted back: four dead, two wounded.

Frowning, Hanzee regarded the body as he got off the wrecked bed and straightened his clothes. He didn't feel as satisfied as he ought to. 

He re-tied Constance's robe and dragged her over by the sofa. She looked pale and plain, curled there on her side. He fetched the fallen rose and tucked it under her arm. Better.

Mulling it over, he realized the physical release of the sex and the kill hadn't eased the disquiet that had been building inside him since the incident at the bar. Since the war, really. Since all those years ago when the government school had taken him as a child, and when the Gerhardts had taken him from the streets. Yeah: a long time brewing, and he was coming to a boil. He just didn't know what to do with it yet.

 

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** Some of our more radical colleagues offer a different interpretation.

 

* * *

 

"I tried," she said, voice shaking. "You heard."

He stroked her hair, then leaned in and tilted her head down until their foreheads touched.

"You like women?" he murmured.

She flinched, but his hand behind her head held her in place.

"What? Don't be silly." The denial came out of habit. Only after it had left her mouth did she realize she'd sorta taunted someone who was almost certainly going to hurt her, or worse, on his way to carrying out whatever awful plans he had in store for Peggy and Ed.

"That's not what you said before." She couldn't read his expression with their faces so close together, but he sounded… amused, maybe?

("You expecting company?" he'd asked after he'd stepped inside and locked the door behind him. 

"N-no." 

He'd looked deliberately at the romantic tableau on the table, the single rose lit by the bedside lamp, then back at her. 

"Just Peggy," she'd admitted. 

He'd raised his eyebrows: the only time his mask had cracked so far tonight.) 

She gave in. What did it matter at this point, anyway? "Yah," she said. "Yah, I do."

He grunted. "You like men?"

Constance had always preferred women in general, and lately preferred Peggy in particular. She'd tried her share of men—hell, she'd been married that one time—but they always turned out to be dull, mean, or rotten cheaters.

"Not really?" But then her brain caught up with her. "I mean—" Was he just curious, or was he… asking? If she said yes, could she save her skin? "Sometimes." She swallowed and went for it: "Why?"

He cocked his head, skin warm against hers. "Pass the time."

Pass the time until what? Did he want her to try to return Peggy's call in the morning, maybe see if she could get Ed on the line? Did he want to wait here for some reason, keep an eye on her, before going to find Peggy's cabin?

Whatever his plans, it didn't make sense for him to ask her like this if he was only planning to kill her after. Right? And it bought Peggy more time if he stayed here at the hotel.

"I mean," she said, and took a breath for courage, "if you want to. Yah. Okay, yah."

"Okay," he echoed. He sat back and let go of her head.

He looked at her. She looked at him. Did he want her to make the first move or something?

"You want some Chablis?" she tried. "It'd be a real shame for it to go to waste." If she could get him to drink enough, maybe he'd fall asleep.

He pointed at the other bed. "Sit."

Right. She slid to her feet and crossed the narrow aisle. After a moment's consideration, she turned down the sheets. Her hands shook.

By the time she turned back around, Hanzee had dropped his coat on the other bedspread. He took off the belt that had the knife and—okay, also a gun holstered to it. He laid it over his coat. Following her gaze, he said, "Don't do anything stupid."

"'Course not," she agreed. As if she'd have a chance against someone like him. She sat at the edge of her mattress.

When he unbuttoned and shrugged off his outer shirt, Constance blinked. He actually had some nice muscles under all those bulky clothes. More buff than most of the men she knew in Luverne, for sure. His chest, as far as she could see, was hairless, which was a novelty. Was that an Indian thing, maybe? She'd never slept with an Indian before, man or woman.

He took off his boots next, his socks, his pants. He left his shorts on along with his undershirt and didn't seem inclined to remove them as he gestured for her to move further onto the bed.

"Don't like being naked," he explained as if he could hear her thoughts. He climbed in beside her, corralling her between his body and the window. 

"Okay by me." She wasn't about to judge the quirks of a man who held her life in his hands.

They got under the sheets. The mild sweat smell of him grew more noticeable with all the newly exposed skin. Constance took steady breaths and kept her eyes on his as he untied the belt of her robe, out of sight. The bedside lamp gave him a halo.

She supposed it wasn't bad, as far as sex with a psycho went. He still terrified her, and she didn't come anywhere near fulfillment, but he didn't hurt her or anything like that.

Afterwards, he spooned in close behind her with their backs to the room. A lock of his hair fell across her bare shoulder. It felt kinda nice. She could almost pretend it was Peggy, if it weren't for certain other parts of him.

A minute or two passed, and then he shifted. He kept one arm around her waist, but he stretched the other away from her, and it sounded like he was fumbling for something. The telephone dinged as he jostled it.

"What're ya doing?" She craned her neck to try and see.

He finished whatever it was and slid his arm under her shoulder, bringing his hands together in front of her. He'd unplugged the cord that connected the phone to the wall. He made a big loop, then a second, and started tying some kind of knot.

"What did you need that for?" But even as she asked, she got a bad feeling. That cord was a good length to tie her wrists with. And if he'd disconnected the phone, then he didn't want her to talk to Peggy again.

She turned in his embrace. His blank, almost drowsy expression scared her even more.

"I did everything you asked," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. "You can just… go. I won't make a peep, I swear."

He combed her hair back from her face. Then he traced the cord along her jaw. 

Her heart beat harder; her breaths came faster. She looked down at the cord without moving her head and realized he'd made a noose.

He was going to kill her after all. He was going to choke her with the symbol of her failure.

"No," was all she could think of to say.

"It'll be quick," he said, as though that were comforting.

She shoved at his chest, twisting away from him. If she could make it to that knife— 

But she didn't get far. He locked his legs around hers and lassoed her with the cord. He held her hard across the shoulders with her back to his chest, and the garrote constricted, impossibly tight, as he made a fist behind her neck. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't get her fingers under it. She fought him for all she was worth, which turned out to be not enough. He exhaled hard into her hair, taunting her with the air he was denying her. 

It figured, she thought before consciousness faded: She'd spent most of her life getting fucked over by men, and now, at the end, Hanzee had simply made it literal.

 

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** Many of those who have analyzed Hanzee Dent's moral code, however, maintain that it would have been out of character for him to assault a woman, or even to dally with one while on a job. He appeared to have little interest in the softer sex, they say. Only on rare occasions did he leave the Gerhardts to visit the street corner that served as Fargo's red light district, where none of the working girls he picked up would later report anything remarkable. Nor was he known to have partaken in any untoward behavior regarding enemy women during the war, despite the ruthlessness he displayed in combat.

Regarding the rumpled bedclothes, these scholars argue that Hanzee passed a quiet night in Constance's room while the body of the woman herself lay cooling on the carpet.

 

* * *

 

He wiped sweat off his upper lip and surveyed the room. Sloppy. 

Careful not to trip on the bathrobe tie, he stepped over what had recently been Constance Heck and crouched in front of the ice bucket they'd spilled in their struggle. He uncorked the Chablis, sniffed, considered, and poured himself a cup.

Television held little appeal for Hanzee. His gaze fell on the stack of packets Constance had been trying to press on Peggy Blumquist. He picked up the thick one on top. _The Power of YOU: A Modern Woman's Guide to Self_ —he squinted at the last word— _Ac-tu-a-li-za-tion_. He had never been a good reader, but he liked to try to improve when he had the time and opportunity. 

He stripped to his undershirt and shorts and washed up. Placing his knife within an arm's length on the side table, he settled into the unfamiliar luxury of a hotel bed. He pulled the workshop packet into his lap, then reached over and set the lamp upright again. He took another sip of wine and turned to the first page.

 

* * *

 

 **NARRATOR:** Any of these paths to the final outcome are possible, as are others entirely. We will likely never know. As is fitting for a man named Ohanzee, much of his story remains in shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted to [Dreamwidth](https://bironic.dreamwidth.org/374054.html).


End file.
